


A Lion-Hearted Girl

by phantomadrenx



Series: By Cruel Magic Taken [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Amnesia, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Deviates From Canon, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Protagonist, Fifth Blight, Mistaken Identity, Mistaken for Royalty, Modern Girl in Thedas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Insert, Tags May Change, Wake Up Save the World
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5676826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomadrenx/pseuds/phantomadrenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the top of her list of things to do is survive. If she wants to do that, though, she needs to save Thedas from the Blight. Along the way, she'll have to put herself together again. Otherwise known as: "Ren's got no clue who she is, what she's doing, what's going on, or how she got here, but she's still gonna try and fix things."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who Sees in Dream

**_Blade to shackle-bearer, valiant of spirit_**  
**_Blazing like star-shine, to battle they charged._**  
**_None to return to the lands of their mothers_**  
**_By cruel magic taken, ice, lightning, and flame._**  
**–– Canticle of Andraste 1:5**

There is very little light when she finally manages to open her eyes. _**Everything**_ hurts. Her joints flare with pain and her muscles protest violently – twitching something awful – as she slowly pushes herself up into a sitting position. The very effort of it makes her want to vomit. But there is nothing to be brought up; so she ends up dry heaving for several moments over the side of the stone slab she has woken up on.

Wiping away the bile, she squints into the darkness. There’s only a single, guttering torch in a bracket on the wall farthest from her to illuminate the room. It’s also green. It’s probably the one thing that makes the most sense – why else would there be fire in this very obviously abandoned tomb or ruin or whatever unless it was magic?

Along one wall, she can make out the shadowed outlines of several different vessels of varying sizes and heights. Several of these have collapsed in on themselves and she’s absolutely certain that they’re covered in a thick layer of dust and spider webs.

The flickering light throws the carved reliefs on the wall into sharp detail. Whatever it is they say, or are meant to depict, is lost on her in the gloom and her own hazy memory.

What unnerves her most is the absolute _**silence**_ of the place. The flame makes no noise as it burns in its brazier and she can’t hear anything alive that she’s certain should be there. She assumes that she must be deep within whatever structure this is, because there is no whistle of wind.

It’s a complete absence of sound. All she hears is the rush of blood in her ears and her own ragged breathing.

She cannot recognize anything familiar in the glyphs and carvings on the walls that surround her. The figures are elegant, with sharply pointed ears which mark them as Definitely Not Like Her. She cannot put words to it, but it’s something. She just doesn’t know _what_.

She needs to move. The crushing alienness is oppressive. She is alone, with no clue as to where she is or how she got here. Obviously, she is not meant to be here. But, at the same time, no one has likely been here since time immemorial.

Dragging herself off the slab, her legs reveal that they must be made from jelly, because they collapse under her. When she hits the ground, it feels as though thousands of red hot needles are stabbing into her. She bites her lip in a vain attempt to muffle her cry of pain.

 _Shit that hurts_.

She has to pause for a moment, taking deep gulping breaths of air, before she steels herself to maneuver her legs out from under her. That it hurts would be an understatement. Her joints are stiff and simply straightening them out in front of her leaves her feeling drained.

It feels like her entire body has sustained the absolute worst beating in her life. Or like she decided to run the entire length of a mountain and got into a fight with something large and very hairy at the top, then decided to roll her way down through the forest afterward. _**Everything**_ hurts. Her joints are so stiff that just flexing her fingers feels like someone has taken knives to them. It’s not reassuring at all that simply trying to work feeling back into her hands is so exhausting.

But staying where she is for any real length of time is simply out of the question. She’ll most likely starve to death before anyone finds her, and there’s no guarantee that even _**if**_ someone does, that they’ll have any good intentions towards her.

Once her hands feel a little more like a part of her rather than roadkill scraped off the side of the road, she’s able to try and rub some feeling back into her legs. The muscles aren’t twitching so violently now – she can’t visibly see them doing so – but now it’s an eruption of pins and needles under her skin.

Still, there is no noise but those that she makes.

The silence weighs down on her, pressing on her shoulders until it’s all that she is aware of. She can’t ignore it. It’s just _**there**_.

_I don’t want to be alone. Please don’t let me be all alone._

It could be hours or minutes that she sits there, trying to work feeling back into her aching body. To her, though, it feels like an eternity – the minutes stretching out into little eons of their own. She’s horribly exaggerating but really, she’s beyond caring at this point.

About the only good points she can count in her favour are the following: she did not wake up naked, there is no blood, and nothing is broken. No, instead she feels like everything should be.

Once she feels like she’s ready, she takes a deep, steadying breath, before using the slab to haul herself to her feet.

Her head spins. She feels like she’s going to vomit. Again. There isn’t anything to bring up, though, and she just ends up gagging. The room spins around her, but she manages to remain upright. Somehow. Sheer force of will and all that.

After another few deep breaths to steady herself, she pushes off the slab and takes a few shaky steps to the door. She makes it, but she still crashes into the door. Rotted and splintered from years of disuse and lack of care, it gives out from a combination of the force of her momentum and her weight. The hinges shriek in protest as they give way. She ends up sprawled across the floor yet again.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters between hacking coughs. The collapse of both her and the door stirred up a not insubstantial amount of dust, which her lungs absolutely don’t appreciate.

The lighting outside of the tiny room she woke up in is just as sparse. She pushes herself back up, wincing as the rotted wood digs into her hands – she is going to be pulling splinters out for _days_ – and takes in the surrounding dimly lit stone corridor. It feels damp, has the foul smell of mould and decay, and clearly has been neglected for a very long time.

With no other options left to her other than to move on, she struggles back to her feet. Her walk is less of a walk and more that of a stumbling, badly injured drunk who has taken one too many blows to the head, but it’s progress at least. Luckily for her, she’s only left with going right since the corridor is straight and whatever was originally to the left of her little room is inaccessible as the ceiling has long since caved in.

She has to lean against the walls for support and guidance. There’s very little light down here, apart from a few more of those scattered green torches, leaving her with poor, murky visibility. It feels more like she’s underwater than underground.

Under her fingers, the walls are carved with reliefs which are damp and covered liberally in a fuzzy moss. Every now and again, her fingers brush against a root, rough and a little warm against her skin. The chill of the stone and the damp has begun to seep into her, making her shiver. All she can do to stop her teeth from chattering together is to clench her jaws tightly, until they too begin to ache like the rest of her.

The only thing she can do is keep moving.

Farther along, the corridor begins to angle upwards, or at least it feels like it does. She’s completely disoriented right now, she could be heading further down for all she knows. But above her, there are cracks in the ceiling, letting in small little rays of sunshine that leave her blinded when she looks at them.

Although her body is still aching, it is less painful than it was before, and she is able to push away from the wall and begin stumbling forward without support. The further and further she goes, the more frequently the cracks in the ceiling appear, and the brighter the tunnel becomes.

With the increased amount of light, she can make out more of the carvings. They still make no sense to her, but when she brushes her fingers against them, it’s like there’s a hum of electricity under them; some kind of energy that crackles at her touch. It feels alive. And like it wants to draw her in.

It’s with a not insubstantial amount of willpower that she pulls away from it. Still, she can feel the energy brushing against her skin like a phantom touch, lingering upon her as she keeps moving.

Soon, she can see a bright light ahead of her, it starts off as a small dot in the distance, but it grows gradually larger as she approaches. It must be an exit. The closer she draws to it, and the brighter the tunnel becomes, the less she feels that alien pull of energy upon her; it’s hold weakens the closer she draws to the bright light of day.

She picks up the pace, anxiety gnawing at her core. She’ll be glad to be rid of this place.

Even with the gradual brightness as she makes her way to the surface, the sun is still blinding when she steps out into it. She has to shield her eyes, squinting as she emerges at last from the ruins.

It takes several long minutes of blinking and squeezing her eyes shut before they adjust to being in the sun once again. Once her eyes have, she lowers her hand and takes in her surroundings.

Up here in the sunlight, there are more ruins. They crumble into the forest which surrounds them, moss and vines covering nearly every available surface. Gradually, the forest is reclaiming this ancient site, slowly assimilating the remnants of the civilization which once built it. The entrance that she emerged from has sunken a little into the ground and is grown over with vegetation.

The silence is gone. She can hear the soft chirping of birds and the rustle of wind in the trees. The tension from earlier bleeds out of her, shoulders relaxing and the sharp knot in her back recedes just a little. But the anxiety doesn’t completely let go of her.

She is still alone with no idea where she is. Or, really, _who_ she is. The only thing for certain is that she can’t stay here.

Her muscles have mostly stopped protesting her every move now and she feels much more like herself than a doll which has had its strings cut. Carefully, she starts picking her way through the scattered fallen debris from the ruins and the trees and brush that have sprung up around it. She can just make out, through the trees, what looks like a river. The closer she gets, the louder the sound of rushing water becomes.

The brush in her path proves to be too prickly and thick for her to safely get through it without getting herself tangled up in it, so she’s forced to go around it to reach the river’s edge. Of course, once she clears the turn, the river is not the only thing she finds.

Crouching at the edge of the river is a man.

She freezes in her tracks. _Fuck_.

He is heavily armed, as evidenced by the sword sheathed at his back and the long knife at his waist. To go with that, he’s wearing what looks like light, but durable leather armour emblazoned with a symbol that looks like a… something. She isn’t actually sure what it is, just that it has wings.

He’s also taller than she is by a good number of inches, muscular, and he moves with a wicked deadly grace that sends chills down her spine. Something about his gaze, though, is both unnerving and reassuring.

“Uh… hello.”

She sounds like a total idiot. Who says hello to a man who could probably slit her throat with no effort?

There would be no point to that, though, she realizes. She doesn’t think that she has anything of value on her… does she?

There’s a furrow in his brow as he takes her in, and he straightens slowly. He regards her from a safe distance, but she isn’t put that much more at ease by the casual posture he adopts or how he holds out his hands to her in a placating gesture that is pretty much the universal sign for will-not-hurt-you. Running into heavily armoured and armed men in the middle of nowhere, with no idea where she is or _who_ she is, is not at all reassuring.

Everything seems so wrong. _This isn’t right_ , a voice whispers in the back of her mind. She shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here. _This is wrong_.

She feels dizzy. The ground has been yanked out from under her, and she stumbles back. Shaking her head, she’s trembling violently now. Her chest feels tight, like there is not enough air for her to take in. She feels cold, as though she’s been thrown in the waters of the river rushing by, which sounds loudly in her ears.

Her heel hits a rock and she topples backwards to the ground in a heap. The world doesn’t stop spinning, but now she has a host of new aches and bruises to add to her rapidly growing collection. But the pain _does_ help a little to ground her, reminds her that despite how wrong everything seems, it is most definitely real.

There is a fear coursing through her, dark and clawing at her insides until it feels like it may tear itself from her chest. Her vision has become blurry, fading to black at the edges, and there _is not enough air_.

Answers. She wants answers, but cannot find her voice to ask the needed questions. She cannot – there is nothing when she reaches – no, she needs to focus.

She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to find something to focus upon to regain herself. There is the sound of the river rushing past, but it mimics that of the blood in her ears. Above her, she can hear the wind in the trees and feel the press of dirt and grass against her back. The grass tickles against the exposed skin of her arms, warmed by the light of the sun.

With deep, shuddering breaths, she counts to ten in her head as she breathes in, and then again as she breathes out. Slowly, the feeling of lightheadedness leaves, leaving her thoughts clearer than before. Her heart’s racing pace begins to quiet, the roaring rush of blood in her ears ebbs, and she can hear herself think again.

The man has come a little closer, crouching down near her side. He’s laid his blades aside, although they remain within easy reach. It’s not quite enough to set her at complete ease, but he hasn’t attacked her during her panic attack and _does_ look like he’s actually concerned about her. Then again, that crease between his brows and the frown on his lips look to be permanently carved into the lines of his face.

“You don’t need to fear me. I will not harm you.”

His voice is deep, but has that underlying edge of authority to it. Clearly, a man who’s in some position of power. Despite how close he is, he makes no further move towards her. Instead, he remains where he is, kneeling at her side, waiting for her to make the first move. His posture is decidedly non-threatening, but the strength is clear in his build and in the set of his shoulders.

“Who–?”

“I am Duncan, the Warden-Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden,” he replies. He speaks softly to her, like she’s a skittish animal that might bolt at the slightest provocation.

Which… isn’t altogether untrue.

“Ferelden? That’s… that’s where I am, is it?” Her own voice is hoarse as she speaks, she swallows. Her throat feels raw, as though she’s drank an entire glass of sand. And her tongue keeps sticking to the roof of her mouth.

What the man – _Duncan_ , she corrects herself, _his name is Duncan_ – says makes no sense to her. Whatever a Grey Warden is, what it means, she has no clue. It makes her heart spiral upwards in her throat to know that _nothing_ is familiar to her, but she has to swallow down her fear. She can’t show fear, she needs to be strong.

Duncan nods, slowly, “Yes, the kingdom of Ferelden. We are about a day’s journey from Dragon’s Peak, on the edge of the Brecilian Forest.”

“Oh.”

Her head spins wildly as she pushes herself up into a sitting position. Her clothes are thin enough that she can feel every piece of debris on the forest floor digging into her flesh. There’s also a rock digging uncomfortably into her hip.

“Are you lost?”

She has to bite back the hysterical giggle that’s clawing at the back of her throat, because that’s such an absolutely obvious fucking question. Clearly she doesn’t belong here: everything about her, from her clothes to her lack of memory, screams ‘I am a foreigner with no fucking clue where I am, please mug me and leave me for dead in a ditch somewhere’.

“Afraid so.” Her voice is high, breathy, and if it wasn’t obvious that she’s on the edge of completely losing it, then there’s no denying it now. She’s clearly lost, alone, and with no idea where she came from or how she’s supposed to get back to wherever it is she came from.

But… there’s a part of her which doesn’t really want to go back.

“I… I just – I woke up here and I don’t know _where_ I am. Much less how I got here.”

She starts shaking again, feeling chilled, and wraps her arms around herself. Her skin is cold to the touch and she tries to rub some warmth back into them. The chill goes nowhere, though, and she draws her knees to her chest, trying to keep herself from breaking out into tears. Or another panic attack. She’s not sure which is likely to happen. Probably both.

Duncan, though, watches her quietly for a few seconds. The silence stretches between them, feeling awkward to her to the point where she almost wants to make another hysterical outburst just to break it. She doesn’t deal well with tension.

“Do you remember anything of what brought you here?”

She takes a shaking breath, that comes with a high noise of distress, “There… no, I don’t remember much of anything. It’s all – all just something of a blur. I can’t – I don’t. There’s nothing.”

Wisely, she thinks, she leaves out the fact that she has no idea who she is. Not even her name.

 _Oh shit_. That’s probably going to be his next question: Who are you?

She needs to come up with some kind of answer that will be at least somewhat satisfactory. Her strange appearance in the middle of what is obviously nowhere is already suspicious enough, she doesn’t need to add to it by going ‘surprise, I have no idea who I am’.

A name. She needs a name.

While she tries to quickly piece together _some_ kind of name for herself, Duncan continues to look at her with a little frown of befuddlement. It’s only momentary, though, because it clears quickly and he resumes his stoic watch of her with his strange, dark eyes.

“A kidnapping gone awry, then.” He speaks slowly, giving her an opportunity to correct him if he’s wrong. Hell if she’s going to do that, because the explanation he comes up with is certainly better than any half-assed one that she could patch together.

She already feels naked under Duncan’s scrutiny, but she tries not to let that nervousness show. She just nods her head, “Looks like it, though I can’t remember much about it.”

“I will help you find your way home, though I fear that you are very far from your homeland,” Duncan replies. “I shall see you delivered safely back to your husband and family.”

He makes it sound like she’s some sack of misplaced goods. Which… given the state of his dress, she likely is. She’s not too thrilled at the thought of it, but she doesn’t have many options. Well, she’s pretty much got only one at this point, and it’s to trust Duncan and hope that he’ll keep to his word of seeing her safely delivered home. Wherever that may be.

“I have no husband.”

That’s one thing she’s certain of, despite the fact that her memory is like grasping at sand. There are shades on the edges of her memory, which she keeps trying to grasp for something more concrete, but refuse to stay. But there are a couple of things that she’s certain of, simply because the _sound_ of them feels wrong. Or right, whatever the case might be.

She’s certain that she isn’t married, though whether she is promised to someone she can’t be certain of. Likely she is.

Duncan nods his head, “Be that as it may, your family will be missing you. I shall see you returned to them in the same condition that you were taken.”

He stands and offers her his hand. She hesitates for only a moment before taking it, letting Duncan pull her to her feet. Standing this close, he smells of leather, sweat, and something distinctly unfamiliar. It’s not unpleasant, but he certainly does smell like a man who has been on the road for a good number of days without a wash.

“We should leave with haste, before your kidnappers return. They will have realized that something has gone wrong when they realize you have disappeared and will come looking for you. I’m surprised that they would have left you alone.”

“I doubt that I’d be much of a threat to them.”

“Perhaps, but leaving a woman of your standing – whom they have gone to such lengths to steal away for some greater purpose – is worrisome. Clearly, they didn’t believe that you would wander far. We should leave, before they come looking for you.”

She hasn’t seen signs of there being anyone else in this wood aside from her and Duncan. But she keeps her mouth shut and nods. With her shoddy memory, her only real option is to go along with whatever explanation Duncan thinks is most likely.

Likely, Duncan’s right about her. No one would have gone through something ridiculous and convoluted for a simple peasant or merchant’s daughter. If Duncan wants to assume that she’s a princess, then she’ll go with it. Chances are that it’s the truth.

And, she thinks, she can play it to her advantage. She can use assumptions that she’s an incredibly sheltered, naïve royal princess to explain away her amnesia. Better to stick close to half-truths than make up a convoluted lie that she’ll get tripped up on.

“Then, please, let’s get out of here.”

Duncan nods, and moves to retrieve his weapons. She stands by, awkwardly watching him, and feeling distinctly underdressed as she watches him. Duncan’s dressed in light armour and heavy, coarse linen clothing that looks as though it’s seen better days. Compared to him, she’s practically naked.

She tugs at the hem of her top, a deep royal blue that showcases her bare arms and a not-so-small amount of cleavage, and stares at her feet. She’s wearing delicate flats, more suited to strolling through a paved palace or manor than mucking through the wilderness. Fine cloth she may be wearing, but it’s ill-suited to trekking through the wilds.

“My lady,” Duncan holds out his hand once more, and she takes it. He uses his hold on her hand to lead her along, pausing every now and again to help her over a fallen tree or an overgrown root.

“If I may, where are we headed?” she asks.

“We will make for the capital, Denerim. I will need to make arrangements for where you are to stay, for my presence is needed in the south – at Ostagar.”

“What’s happening at Ostagar?”

“His majesty, King Cailan, has called his armies to gather there to fight against the darkspawn horde which has emerged from the Korcari Wilds. We Grey Wardens march with him to end the Blight before it begins, but we are currently few in number. I was traveling through the Brecilian Forest in search of the Dalish, in the hopes that I might find new recruits among their number.”

She nods, even though little of what he’s told her makes any actual sense. She doesn’t know what a darkspawn is, or a Blight, and she still has no idea what a Grey Warden is or what being one entails. It’s a military order of some kind, obviously, and from how Duncan describes it, likely one focused on these ‘Blights’ and darkspawn. Beyond that, though, she cannot parse much else from his statement.

“So I’m to await for your return in Denerim, then?”

Duncan shakes his head, “No. We will stop in Denerim to resupply and to find you some… proper attire as well as rest. I will need to speak with some of my contacts on the matter, but I’m certain that the Cousland family in Highever would be willing to watch over you in my absence.”

Although she recognizes that she isn’t going to be of much help to Duncan, she’s still a little rankled at being treated like she’s nothing more than some bargaining tool. She won’t be of much help in a battle, since her knowledge of swordplay extends to knowing that the pointy end goes into the soft squishy bits of one’s opponent, but the very thought of being deemed useless lodges a cold weight in the pit of her stomach.

“I suppose… that’s the best choice for me.”

It will give her a chance to find her feet and better able to blend into Ferelden society. She’ll have to take it, because it’s the only choice she’s got.

Duncan gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, “You will be safe at Castle Cousland, for it is far from the threat of the darkspawn horde. And the Cousland family is a kind one, you will be welcome within their halls, my lady.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” she says, inspiration striking her. “Kerensa works just fine – or Ren.”

Duncan’s eyebrows go up.

“I don’t mind if you call me by my name. I’d prefer it actually.”

“If you insist, then I will, Kerensa. May I ask you your family name?”

“Fraser.”

It’s as good a name as any and it was the first one that came to mind. She can’t continue to go along without a name without it raising too many questions. This way, at least, she has an identity, even if it’s not exactly true. But she doesn’t really have a choice; she’ll just have to fake her way through and then make the rest of it up. Bullshit, after all, makes the world go round.

Ren does feel a little niggle of guilt at lying to Duncan, but that’s brushed aside by the knowledge that even if she _did_ tell him the truth, he likely wouldn’t believe her. Even if Kerensa Fraser isn’t her actual name, it’s one that she’s chosen for herself – that is who she will be, thus it is her name.

Names have power. This will be hers.

* * *

Denerim smells a lot like a dungheap.

That’s not being entirely fair, though the place does smell something awful. It’s definitely not a smell that she’s familiar with. The city smells a lot like unwashed bodies, sweat, _people_ , and like a whole mountain of horse shit has been left out to putrefy in the sun. The smell of the horse shit actually bothers her the least, it’s everything else that’s overwhelming.

And there’s so many _people_. The small villages that they passed through during their trek to Denerim don’t even come close to comparing. For once, Ren feels like she could lose herself in the crowd – be just one more body in a sea of people – and not be the oddity of a lost foreigner in a land clearly not her own.

For a place that’s supposedly at war, Ren sees a surprising lack of soldiers. She sees guards here and there, but there are no soldiers marching about. But then, most of them have likely marched south with the king. It makes sense that there would only be a small garrison of city guards left behind to maintain law and order while the army is away.

Duncan guides her through the streets with a hand between her shoulder blades, but that doesn’t stop Ren from looking about with wide, wandering eyes. The sight of the city would be breath-taking on its own, but Ren feels very much like she’s dreaming.

Nothing about this city is like the ruins she first found herself in. Denerim feels far more familiar to her, old and well lived in, clad in stone and wood. There is no ancient, ominous pull here, calling her back to sleep until her body crumbles to dust and the world tumbles over its edge. No, here is permanence and bustle – it contains all the living energy that the ruins lacked. To her, Denerim feels _human_.

“Come, we must see to you being properly attired,” Duncan urges her on gently, snapping Ren out of her train of thought.

They pass by a church of some kind, though the iconography is not any that Ren recognizes. There are women clad in pale reds, yellows, and pinks, with a blazing sun upon their chests. One of them is preaching to passer-bys, speaking of a Maker.

“What is that place?” Ren asks. She keeps her voice low, hushed.

As it turns out, that was probably a good idea because Duncan looks at her as though she’s grown a second head. Ren just stares back at him. That can’t have been such a stupid question… can it?

“That, Kerensa, is a Chantry.”

“Oh. I’ve never seen one before.” Ren cranes her neck around Duncan, trying to get a better look. It looks like a large building, with its carved statues at its front and its… chanters, she supposes they are, milling about. There’s no shortage of people passing in and out of its gates, sometimes pausing to speak with one of the chanters before moving on.

Duncan’s still looking at her strangely. Apparently her question and her answer were entirely strange to him, possibly revealing more about her than she’d like him to know. Ren makes a mental note to find some answers to her questions while they’re here; she can’t keep blundering about without an idea of what the hell she’s doing.

“Do you not have chantries in your country?”

Ren shrugs, “If we do, I’ve never seen one. I didn’t get out much.”

Keep playing up the intensely sheltered young woman facade, Ren tells herself. She’ll have to educate herself later. In a city like this, there _must_ be a place she can safely find answers and she intends to take full advantage of it.

For what it’s worth, Duncan takes that answer as it is and doesn’t press Ren for more. Instead, he leads her through the winding roads of the marketplace until they reach a small, unassuming shop front. Above the door, there’s a simple wooden sign painted with a picture of a dress and what looks like a needle.

Ren’s currently got Duncan’s cloak bundled about her. It kept out the worst of the chill, while also preserving her modesty.

Now that she’s able to get a good look around, Ren realizes that she absolutely needs to find something more suitable. She can’t continue to wander around as she is, because that will definitely draw more attention to her than she’s comfortable with. Also, Duncan’s cloak is far too long on her and she has to keep it hiked up so that she doesn’t trip on it and face plant into the dirt.

Duncan holds the door to the shop open for her, Ren steps in and is immediately hit with the musty smell of clothing. The place also smells strongly of herbs, but Ren can’t put a name to which ones.

From the back of the store, a woman bustles out. She’s substantially shorter than Ren is, with wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her skin is a warm shade of brown, but her dark green eyes are sharply narrowed as she takes the two of them in.

“Well, well, I didn’t think to expect a Grey Warden in my midst,” she says. “Brought a new recruit, have you?”

“This one isn’t a recruit, Petra,” Duncan says. “Lady Kerensa simply needs a set of clothes.”

“‘Lady’, hm?” Petra tuts. She takes Ren in from the top of her head to the soles of her mud-caked shoes before meeting her eyes, “Well, we’ll have to find something appropriate for you then.”

“Thank you,” Ren murmurs.

She hasn’t noticed before, but now it’s very clear that Ren has an… accent. That’s the word for it, she thinks. Her speech sounds noticeably different from Duncan’s and Petra’s, too. It’s yet another thing that adds up to her being clearly marked as _Other_. Maybe with a change of clothes, she’ll blend in a little more, but there’s no hiding the fact that she sounds different.

Petra hooks a hand into Ren’s elbow, pulling her forward and jerking her out of her thoughts at the same time.

“Come along then and we’ll see if I have anything you like,” Petra’s leading her back towards the rear of the shop. “You’re quite a bit taller than the ladies I usually dress, but we’ll find something that suits you.”

The back of the store is a perfect example of organized chaos. There’s fabric rolled up on shelves, strewn across tables with scissors and needles and all sorts of other needed implements to run such a business as the one Petra does. But there’s also a good number of half-finished or completed dresses on stands arranged about.

Ren tries to take it all in at once, but there’s so much colour that it nearly makes her head spin. Many of the dresses she sees are the same, highly fitted style that she saw on many ladies in the markets. After the long walk that she’s just endured, Ren’s not sure that’s exactly practical for what she’s certain is going to be another long journey.

Duncan may have said that he would take her to Highever, but Ren doesn’t actually know where that _is_ in relation to where they currently are. Chances are, though, that it’s not going to be close.

There must be some specific destination that Petra has in mind, because she continues to gently guide Ren through the expanse of the back area. That doesn’t stop Ren from looking around when she spots, towards the back corner and nearly tucked out of sight, a dress in deep rich blue that makes her stop.

“What’s that one back there?”

Petra stops and peers in the direction that Ren’s pointing. She gives her a mildly confused look, “It was originally commissioned by the wife of a Warden, if I recall correctly. She passed away recently. It’s not a style in fashion, however, so I was going to modify it before trying to sell it…”

From this distance, Ren can’t make out all the details, but it lacks the more fitted skirt and sleeves that the other dresses have. She pulls away from Petra, who lets her go, and makes her way over to it, winding her way around stools and tables.

The dress itself is a deep, rich shade of blue – which is what first caught Ren’s eye. It also has a hood, lined with dark grey fur which is mirrored in the cuffs of its long, bell sleeves. There’s plain, yet lovely silver details down the front, on either side of the centre panel, and its front is held together with a criss-crossed lacing of a fine, silver rope.

When she reaches out to touch the material, it’s heavy and warm against her fingers.

It’s a very strange feeling, one that Ren struggles to put a label on, but it fills her with a sense of _rightness_. She frowns, trying to make sense of it. Ren can’t quite figure out what the word is, but this is what she wants.

“I like this one,” she says, turning to Petra.

Petra nods as she comes over, “Alright. I’ll need to check your measurements against it, but it should fit. That style has quite a lot of give. Now, take off that cloak so I can see what I’m working with.”

Setting aside Duncan’s cloak, Ren feels her cheeks warm as Petra’s eyes widen.

“By the Maker, tell me that you haven’t been cavorting about dressed like this!”

“Unfortunately, I have.” Ren smiles weakly, “I was kidnapped from my home. This is what I was wearing when Duncan found me. He’s been kind enough to help me.”

Petra’s still quite shocked, eyes wide and mouth open, but she approaches cautiously and takes a pinch of fabric between her fingers. If possible, her eyes go even wider. She leans in, examining the fabric and stitching of Ren’s top.

“Amazing! I’ve never seen such quality of fabric before! The Orlesian silks are fine indeed, but this! And the stitching!” She sounds rather elated, breathy and excited. Ren thinks that she might be trembling with joy, “I’ve never known a seamstress to have such small, uniform work! It’s beautiful! Such fine attention to detail…”

It’s easier to let Petra marvel over her clothes then say anything, so Ren stays quiet. It takes a few minutes for Petra to get it all out, but there’s still a wide-eyed wonder in her eyes as she takes Ren’s measurements.

Once her measurements have been taken, Petra carefully removes the dress from its stand and pushes it into Ren’s arms. There’s a small, curtained off stall in the opposite corner, and it’s to there that Petra directs her. Ren gets the idea that she’s supposed to change into the dress and does so.

She keeps her underwear on, though.

The dress was likely originally made for a woman shorter than Ren, but Petra apparently didn’t have the time to make the final alterations. The hem stops just past Ren’s ankles and Ren is able to lace herself in with very little difficulty. It’s a surprisingly good fit.

Most importantly, however, is that it’s warm and covers all the necessary parts. She’ll be able to blend in much easier like this.

When she emerges from the little curtained stall, it’s to find Petra and Duncan in conversation. A pair of sturdy looking, but comfortable, fur-lined boots lies on the table beside them. The two fall quiet when Ren emerges.

“That is quite a becoming colour on you,” Petra says. She steps forward, has Ren hold her arms up so that she can make a final inspection. Even she seems surprised at how well it fits, “Well, I hadn’t had a chance to take it in before, but on you that’s unnecessary.”

“You look much more appropriate now, my lady.” Duncan picks up the boots and hands them to her, “Here, these will hold up much better than your slippers for the journey ahead.”

“Thanks,” Ren says.

Petra finds her a stool that Ren can sit on and do up the long set of laces that hold the boots on. Once done, she stands and feels much more… comfortable than before. It’s a nice feeling.

Petra’s waving off Duncan’s offer of payment, “It’s already been paid for, Duncan. There’s no need to offer me more; I’ve got no reason to alter it further and she desperately needs proper attire. Besides, you Wardens are doing us a great service by marching alongside his majesty. Consider it a gift.”

“Very well, Petra. Thank you.”

Petra waves it off, “Look after our young lady here. You’ll be staying at the Gnawed Noble, then? I’ll send along Kendrick later with a package of necessities.”

“Thank you, Petra. Truly,” Ren says. “If there’s anything that I can do to repay you–”

“None of that. I can’t turn away a young lady in need and we all owe the Grey Wardens a debt for the duty they perform.” There’s a gleam in Petra’s eye and she grins with an exaggerated wink, “But if anyone compliments your dress and wants to know who made it, you send them to me.”

Returning the smile, Ren nodded enthusiastically, “I can certainly do that.”

“Good. Now, I’m certain that you have better things to do than lurk about my shop, Duncan.”

“I do have some business that needs to be taken care of before the day’s end,” Duncan replies. “We will take our leave of you now. Thank you, again, Petra, for your help. I will remember it.”

* * *

The Gnawed Noble Tavern doubles as an inn, which Ren gathers is fairly common here. Duncan secures them two rooms from the tavern’s proprietor, a man who makes no secret that he’s staring at Ren with no small amount of interest. For his part, Duncan does his best to shield her from his stare, which she appreciates greatly.

There’s a great mix of people about the tavern, which is comfortably furnished. Around a number of the tables, there are finely dressed people who are obviously nobles – or at least people who have the money and status to be able to afford such rich fabrics – and there’s also a small number of guardsmen milling about. The entire building smells of rich foods and hums with conversation.

When Duncan’s finished with the proprietor, he turns to Ren and hands her a key.

“Our rooms are this way,” he says, and guides her through the crowd. He leads her down a hall, one side is lined with windows that overlook Denerim’s open marketplace, while the opposite is a series of heavy oak doors.

Their rooms are at the end of the hall. Duncan’s is the last and hers right beside his. Unlocking the door and stepping in, Ren has to admit that it’s a very nice step-up from camping outdoors with nothing more than a cloak and a stump for a bed.

“I have to meet with a few people about your situation,” Duncan tells her. “You’re free to remain here or to look about the market if you like. However, if you do decide to go out, you must promise me that you will return before nightfall.”

“Of course,” Ren says.

She’s quite anxious to have the chance to look about Denerim. There’s a burning curiosity inside of her to _know_ where she is and to better understand this place and its people. Certainly, she’ll be better able to blend in if she’s able to answer her own questions. Ren’s also keen to avoid raising any more suspicion than she likely already has by familiarizing herself with the world; Duncan’s reaction to her not knowing of a Chantry is still clear in her mind.

“Good. I should return before then. We will depart for Highever in the morn.”

Without Duncan, Ren feels that keen loneliness that she did when she first awoke. However, she feels a little more at ease now that she’s properly dressed. Ren locks the door to her room and tucks the key away in one of the deep pockets sewn into the skirt of her dress. Returning to the main room of the tavern, there’s perhaps even more people there then she remembers from earlier.

She slips through the crowd, listening whenever a piece of gossip catches her attention or a sentence perks her interest. Much of it, she can’t make sense of, but some corroborates what Duncan has told her already.

Cailan, from what she gathers, is the king of Ferelden, which is the name of the country she is in. To the south, at a place called Ostagar, is where he has departed with an army to deal with darkspawn raids. She catches people speaking of something called a Blight with some amount of trepidation and what she can only describe as disbelief.

Ren adds all of this to the mental list she’s composing of things to look up.

Exiting the tavern, the air of Denerim is cool and Ren’s even more grateful for the heavy fabric of her dress at keeping it out. To her left is the open air marketplace that Duncan and her walked through earlier, and on her right are some small shops with muted storefronts. _Choices, choices._

Strolling down the street, Ren looks for a sign to jump out at her. She passes by one that smells absolutely awful, which has above its door an image of a plant of some sort. Continuing down the street, she spots a sign that simply reads ‘Wonders of Thedas’.

She has no idea what Thedas is, but when she peers through the dusty shop windows she spots bookcases. Decision made, Ren reaches for the door and steps inside.

The store smells musty, like old books that stirs at something within Ren but it’s not enough to part the strangely dark fog that surrounds her memories. But here, Ren thinks, is her best chance to perhaps at least somewhat mitigate her obvious ignorance of the world she has found herself in.

The only other person besides her within the place that Ren can see is the shopkeeper. He says nothing to her, but watches her with a placid face that chills her more than the cold outside. All he does is watch her with strangely blank eyes while she moves about the store. Ren puts it aside as she begins to browse; she’s not about to let one bizarrely creepy shopkeeper stop her from learning something new.

Ren focuses her search on anything related to Ferelden or the Grey Wardens. She finds little on the latter, but there’s a wealth of works on the former. At the back of the store on its second level is a long table, around which are arranged a number of chairs. Ren takes as many books as she can safely carry up there and settles in to read.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of words and an absurd amount of knowledge that Ren sincerely hopes she will be able to retain. But, having given herself what amounts to a crash course summary of the history of Ferelden, she feels that she’s done the best that she can. Hopefully, that will be good enough to help her blend in.

But, she thinks, even with that, there’s little to hide the fact that she’s clearly not from Ferelden herself.

She found little on the Grey Wardens, aside from several brief mentions of their campaigns against the Blights that have plagued Thedas over the ages. There were a seldom few passages on them scattered about, alongside mentions that they only recently returned to Ferelden after having been exiled from the nation for two hundred years.

There’s scant little on the darkspawn, but Ren finds them discussed in a number of works related to the Chantry. She found one proposed explanation for their existence within verses under the heading of the Canticle of Threnodies. Ren cannot speak to its accuracy, but it’s at least one reason for their existence; the important thing, however, is that she better understands the threat that they pose.

She reads for long hours, until the shadows on the table begin to stretch themselves so long and thin that they touch those on the floor. Ren glances up, and realizes that it’s been much longer than she thought. She carefully closes the book she had just finished and sets it aside with the others. For a minute, she worries over whether or not she should return each book to its proper place, but there’s simply too many on the table already, so what’s one more?

When she stands, she smooths out her skirt and then carefully tucks her chair back into the table. Despite the long hours, she hasn’t seen anyone else in the shop, aside from the shopkeeper who just… stands there, staring. He says not a single word to her as she leaves.

Returning to the Gnawed Noble, Ren better understands _why_ Duncan is so anxious to see her safely cared for in Highever. There, she will be far from where the darkspawn raids are. It’s also closer to the Anderfels, which she gathers, is where the Grey Warden’s headquarters is located and where they will be traveling to once the battle in Ostagar has been decided.

With a better understanding of this place and what she’s accidentally landed herself in, Ren feels more at ease. It’s enough to put a little bit of a bounce in her step as she makes her way back down the road, pausing every now and then to peer into shop windows with a renewed interest.

Above her, the sky has changed from the bright blue of day into the shades of orange, red, and pink that mark its end. _Just in time_ , Ren thinks, returning to the tavern. It had been a little, niggling worry at the back of her mind since she’d wandered into the Wonders of Thedas and discovered all those books, that she’d simply lose track of time and forget to keep her word to Duncan.

Ah, well, she’s better prepared now. Well armed with at least a semi-functional grasp of the country and world she’s found herself in.

It’s only when she’s entered the tavern, the door closing behind her with a click, that she realizes that maybe it would have been better had she stayed away a little longer.

Duncan is there, along with at least ten heavily armed men, and a man whose armour is of a markedly finer make than the men surrounding him. Ren pegs the newcomer of a noble of some rank, though asking her to identify him beyond that is pointless.

“So this is the little Grey Warden princess that people have been humming with talk of,” the man says. His voice is practically dripping with condescension. It makes Ren feel like she’ll need to scrub her skin pink to be clean of his gaze. “I suppose she is quite the pretty young lady.”

“Arl Howe,” Duncan says, gesturing for Ren to come closer.

Warily, Ren does, and remembers to curtsy once she’s at Duncan’s side, “Pleasure to meet you, ser.”

“The pleasure is all mine, my dear princess,” Howe replies. “Duncan here tells me that you will be lodging with the Couslands until the battle at Ostagar has ended. I myself am leaving for Highever in the morn, I had thought to offer you a place in my entourage – to save Duncan an unnecessary trip – but he is quite insistent on escorting you there himself.”

“He has shown me great kindness since my arrival here,” Ren says softly. “I will be grateful for his continued company and will miss it once he leaves for Ostagar. But I thank you for your concern, Arl Howe. It is most appreciated.”

There’s an unnerving glint in Howe’s eyes, the twist of his mouth as he smirks makes Ren’s stomach knot itself until she feels that she might be sick. The way that he looks at her is like one would appraise a fine cut of meat, not a fellow human and much less a young woman.

“I look forward to meeting you again in Highever, _your highness_. And you as well, Duncan.” And with that, he takes his leave.

The tension bleeds out of the room in a rush when the door of the tavern closes behind Howe and his men. Ren has never been more glad to see the back of a man than she is Howe. Everything about the man screams ‘don’t trust me, I’m a raging asshole’. It’s too bad that no one can put that on his forehead, she thinks, because it would certainly make everyone’s life so much easier.

“I’m sorry, Kerensa. I had not thought that Arl Howe would be in Denerim at this time, he and his men were supposed to have marched south with the king’s army a week ago.”

“He seems like a… _charming_ person,” Ren mutters. She’d happily let Duncan know all the colourful names she’s putting together for Howe, but that would likely destroy the image of a proper courtly lady that Duncan’s built up of her. “I didn’t think that news of me would spread so quickly.”

They’re walking down the hall towards their room, speaking in hushed voices that even the nosiest eavesdropper would struggle to hear properly.

“He knows whose pockets to line and which men are best suited to… gathering certain information that will benefit him best,” Duncan replies. “News of a new arrival would have reached him quickly – especially one of your status.”

“Will that pose a problem? My traveling with you?”

“Not at all. I will see you safely escorted to Castle Cousland in Highever. It would not speak well of my reputation if I were to leave you to your own devices – capable as you may be, I’m certain.”

“Thank you.”

When they part for the evening, Ren admits to herself as she locks her door that she doesn’t feel very capable. If anything, she feels lost. Lost and very alone. Duncan may have taken her under his care, but even he doesn’t know how little she knows; how out of place she feels. It feels like she’s constantly missing a step on a flight of stairs, unable to find her own footing and steady herself.

She hates it. It fills her with a cold, sharp fear that sends its shards straight into her core.

 _Don’t let me be alone. I don’t want to be alone. Please_.

But there’s nothing that she can do. She has absolutely no martial skills and, as Duncan indicated on their journey to Denerim, she lacks any sort of calluses; clearly she has never done a day’s hard work in her life. The few times that he attempted to teach her to use a sword were a miserable failure. Ren could hardly lift even Duncan’s short blade.

Even if she wanted to go out looking for her own answers, she’d never be able to find them. She’d be dead the moment she stepped foot out into the world. As much as she hates it, she must swallow that lump in her throat and do as she’s told – it’s for the best, there will be a time later for her to find her purpose and herself.

In the meantime, however, one of the maids was thoughtful enough to draw a bath for Ren. There’s a large, stone basin in one corner of the room from which steam is emanating from. The temptation of hot water and promise of cleaning the dirt from her skin is enough for Ren to set aside her existential worries for now.

Stripping out of her dress, Ren shimmies out of her undergarments, carefully laying them out on the bed, before making a beeline for the tub. The water is just the perfect side of hot, and she sighs as she sinks into it. There’s an array of little containers arranged along a shelf just above the tub, which upon inspection reveals itself to be a collection of various soaps, shampoos, and oils whose labels promise good skin and smooth hair.

Ren goes through them all, sniffing each, before deciding on which fragrances she likes best. She spends a good length of time soaking in that stone tub, just until the water has begun to take on a chill. Groping around the bottom rewards Ren with a small stopper that she pulls out, draining the water.

The linen towels provided are a little rough, but better than going to bed wet and catching ill. Ren dries herself as best she can, before twisting her hair into a very rough semblance of a braid; although, it’s a little too short for her to do a proper one.

There’s also a neatly wrapped package on the bed that Ren hadn’t noticed earlier, distracted as she was by the tub. Opening it, she finds a small collection of underthings, along with two shifts, and several pairs of long, thick socks. It must be that package that Petra had spoken of, because Ren can think of no other reasons for it to be here. She’s grateful for it, as she wasn’t too keen to sleep in the nude.

Carefully, she folds all of her garments and leaves them sitting neatly on one of the rooms chairs. She keeps one of the shifts, slipping into it before she slides into bed. The mattress is a little too firm, but it feels like heaven to Ren, who has spent the last few nights sleeping on the ground. She curls up into a ball under the blankets, focuses on breathing in and out calmly, and lets the warmth from the fire soak into her.

Her sleep is plagued with nightmares. Half-formed shapes, and someone crying for her, but whose face is blurred. Everything sounds muddled, as though they are shouting to her while she drowns.

She wakes early the next morning, feeling only slightly better rested than she did the day before. There’s a lingering feeling of dread in her fingers, as though something is about to happen, but there is naught that she can do to stop it.

Breakfast is a quiet and simple affair. Duncan tells her to pack, lends her a simple rucksack, and says that he has hired two horses for the journey to Highever. Ren doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she doesn’t think she actually knows how to ride, but then remembers that she _should_ know, and so she says nothing.

Duncan has already packed the essentials, leaving Ren to fold up her new clothes neatly and tuck them into the pack. She sets her old clothes on top, newly laundered, and feels a pang in her chest. It feels a little like her heart stops for a moment, like there are shards of ice lodged deep in her lungs, paralyzing her.

Ren presses her hand tightly against her chest, swallows down the lump, and ignores the burn in her eyes. Now isn’t the time. There’s no place for her to move back to, she can only move forward. She puts the thoughts and fears aside, locking them away where she won’t have to think about them. For now.

The dawn light above Denerim streaks the sky in shades of vivid pink and orange, while the sun itself has barely crested above the tops of its buildings. Duncan leads her through the streets, oddly empty of people this time of morn, though there are certainly some to be seen.

They’re met at the gates by a young lad who cannot be much older than Ren herself – though she has no idea how old she herself is, though there’s something brushing against the edges of her conscious that tells her she does – who brings them two horses. The one meant to be hers is a chocolate brown, friendly, and make a soft happy noise when Ren pets her; she’s quite the beautiful animal.

“Her name is Athena,” the young boy tells her.

“Thank you,” Ren replies, smiling.

The boy turns redder than the fruit Ren saw in the market the previous day and quickly averts his gaze, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like ‘your highness’ before he hands her the reigns, bows, and rushes off. Word here must travel fast. Ren’s nerves are curdling in her stomach because she’s not sure if she’s better off hiding in the identity of lost foreign princess.

It’s a little too late now to be worrying about that. The entire city will know before the day is already underway, but Ren will be gone when that happens. She’s relieved, because the last thing she wants to deal with is more questions that she doesn’t have answers to.

Ren doesn’t know if she’s ever ridden a horse before, but her body remembers enough that she falls into the rhythm easily. She doesn’t have to do much aside from quietly following along behind Duncan.

The sun is high above them and Ren is trying to flex her cold, aching fingers to work warmth back into them when there is a loud cracking boom.

Athena rears with a terrified winny, sending Ren toppling backwards out the saddle to the ground. Pain shoots up her arm. She landed hard on her hand, which broke her fall. It hurts, but nothing is broken.

It’s an outbreak of noise. Shrieks, grunts. If it’s in a language, it’s a guttural one that has no rhyme or reason to it. Something is growling.

Ren has enough sense in her head to scramble away from the noise. She’s disoriented from her fall, ears ringing with the noise of combat, and her arms hurt. Her ankle rolls out from under her on a loose rock, she scrapes her hands as she catches herself.

She can hear Duncan yelling in the background, making a spectacle out of himself to draw attention away from her. Ren can smell something, like rotting flesh and blood and it makes her gag. She refuses to turn around, despite her curiosity clawing at her resolve. Better alive and ignorant than curious and dead.

Turns out, she didn’t need to resist so hard.

Its body hits the ground to the side of her, blood curdling in its throat and she can _hear_ the gurgling noise as it chokes. Ren stares in horror.

It isn’t human. Its skin is grey, mottled in places like its started to rot. Its mouth a mass of sharp, yellowed teeth smeared with an oily, black liquid. _Blood_ , has to be, because it wells up from its mouth, from the jagged slash through its throat.

Ren cannot look away.

This creature is not human. It looks stitched together, somehow, leaking this blackness as it dies. Its body spasms in its final death throes and Ren jerks away, bile burning her throat.

She stumbles back. Burning pain erupts along her arm.

She presses her hand against her arm, feels warm wetness and torn skin. When she looks, her arm has been cut open. Blood is already staining her arm bright red and her head spins.

Ren stumbles to her feet, to the nearest bush, and promptly vomits.

Curling up in on herself, she clenches her hand over the wound. She needs to stop the bleeding but there’s no way for her to do so. Ren’s not sure how long she stays there, curled up into a ball as her arm slowly weeps blood onto the soil through her fingers.

That’s how Duncan finds her. His face is smeared with that dark oily blood and sweat, but he isn’t injured. Although the battle is over, he hasn’t replaced his weapons in their sheaths and they’re dripping with that black ichor.

Duncan crouches down next to her, “You’re hurt?”

Ren winces. She’s still shaking violently, but she shows him her bloody arm. The wound has stopped bleeding heavily, but it is still oozing blood in a slow trickle. Now that the adrenalin of her flight instincts is fading, the chill of shock settling in, Ren realizes that the wound feels… wrong.

Duncan moves away from her, but Ren doesn’t notice until he’s returned. He kneels next to her, gently pulling her arm towards him so that he can treat her wound. His brow is furrowed deeply, and his mouth is set in a frown – which is his default expression, but Ren thinks that this one looks _especially_ grim.

Duncan’s gentle as he cleans the wound, which isn’t as deep as Ren had thought it was. Shallow it may be, but it still bled copiously. Before he binds it with linen bandages from his pack, Duncan smears it with a foul smelling herbal concoction that numbs the wound’s dull throb. It doesn’t, though, mute the strange disquiet that has settled into Ren’s veins.

It feels like a chill, like something _dark_ has entered her body. That whatever this is trying to make her body its own. Her arm is tingling, but there is no pain.

“This changes things,” Duncan says at last. “The chances that you will contract the Taint are high.”

Dimly, Ren remembers the Taint from her readings in Denerim. It’s a… disease, spread by the darkspawn and for which there is no cure.

“You mean I’ll die.”

Her voice sounds hollow, distant, like the words she’s saying are coming from somewhere else that _isn’t_ her. Duncan’s gloved hand is warm around hers, but that feels far away. Her head is spinning and Ren thinks she may be about to pass out or throw up. But her awareness of her body isn’t quite registering right.

She’s afraid. She doesn’t want to die.

“There is… another option.”

Ren blinks, stares at Duncan, her eyes wide and hands trembling, “What?”

“Join the Grey Wardens.”


	2. On the Vast Abyss

She dreams of a song that has no lyrics. It calls to her in her sleep, to follow it down into a place she does not know. She wants to answer, but there are no words to do so.

It is always shrouded in darkness. But she feels eyes on her. The gaze feels old, like it sees straight through her, as though she is _nothing_ before it.

When Ren wakes, she feels tired and stretched thin. Like there is too little of her to fit inside of her own skin.

Her arm burns. The wound has closed, but it is an angry red line tinged with black. Crawling up her arm is a network of black vines, edging closer and closer to her heart with each passing day. Ren catches the way Duncan’s eyes linger on it. That’s what alerts her that _this_ is not normal. Within her, the taint curdles; an outwardly visible corruption that spreads slowly across her flesh.

There is no hiding it.

They’re pushing the horses too far, too fast, Ren believes, but there is no other option. Duncan is now more anxious than ever to reach Ostagar, where his remaining recruits await for the Joining to be administered. Ren is now counted amongst their ranks. They must reach the outpost quickly, before the taint spreads too far.

Ren is afraid to ask what will happen if they arrive too late.

Duncan has told her to tell him how it spreads, but from the tone of his voice, Ren is aware that it’s not spreading the way it should. The slow, visible corruption is unnatural. It spreads through her veins, spreading black roots across her skin, emanating outwards from the initial infection site.

It heals well, but not cleanly. There will be a scar, long and jagged stretching from the base of her hand towards her elbow. For now, it’s grey-tinted skin out of which spreads a spider’s web of black lines.

They’re not tender to the touch. In fact, pressing on them doesn’t hurt at all. Ren’s a little surprised at that, because she thought that such a visible sign of her being tainted by the Blight would hurt and wrack her with near constant pain.

It’s nothing like that. There’s a constant ache deep in her bones, but that could be from the hard pace of their travel. Ren’s quickly learned the meaning behind ‘saddle-sore’ and just how weary long travel makes you. When they reach Ostagar, Ren’s certain that she’s going to be walking funny.

The only other sign that she’s been tainted are the nightmares that come every night. The song she hears in her dreams that she can still hear phantom echoes of when she wakes in the grey light of early morning. It’s getting louder with each day, calling to her, whispering to her in words she doesn’t know or understand; the language of it is old, much more than she is, and it sends a cold chill down her spine.

She’s able to keep track of the spread of the corruption for a simple reason: whenever they make camp, Ren insists upon finding some clean body of water to bathe in. Duncan thinks it’s ridiculous and tries to gently discourage her, but Ren is insistent. Speaking practically, it’s a way for her to see how far the Blight’s taint has spread; it also keeps her from smelling something awful.

Plus, Ren takes comfort in being clean. It helps her rest a little more easily, which she desperately needs. Waking in the morn, feeling exhausted and stretched thin is an unpleasant feeling in and of itself, made worse by having a layer of grime upon her skin. After she bathes, she feels refreshed and much more like _herself_.

She explains as much to Duncan, who relents. So long as it doesn’t impede upon their travels, her little oddities can be forgiven and tolerated. Her insistence on her own cleanliness is apparently just another mark against her that she is an ‘other’ here.

Bathing in rivers is cold and Ren scampers back from it quickly and huddles shivering beside the fire until her skin warms up, but she’d rather be chilled and clean than filthy and warm. It’s weird, but she can live with it.

If only she could deal with the dreams as easily.

* * *

Ostagar is a ruin. Albeit, it’s one that is swarming with activity and people, which makes it very different from the one which Ren first awoke in. The style of it is quite different too, which Ren takes to mean that they were constructed by very different peoples. Still, Ostagar itself remains a foreboding sight.

It also stinks to high heaven of shit, sweat, and unwashed bodies. With the added bonus of the scent of wet dog. It’s a truly _charming_ combination.

Ren fights the urge to wrinkle her nose. It’s unlikely she’ll find anything resembling decent bathing facilities here, but she can make do. It’s late in the evening, she’d like the chance to wash herself before falling into a pallet or bed roll for a few hours to rest. The nightmares haven’t stopped, but they’re not getting _worse_ , so Ren is willing to count that as a tiny victory.

Their horses are picketed with a collection of others across the bridge that leads into the main body of the camp. Duncan tells her that the large building near there is called the Tower of Ishal, constructed alongside the main body of the fortress by the Tevinter Imperium many centuries before to guard against the barbarians who live in the southern wilds.

It’s late in the evening when they arrive. The sky above them is painted in varying shades of rich purple and deep pink. If she was in a better mood, Ren would stop as they cross the bridge to admire it and the accompanying view, but she’s much more concerned with finding somewhere vaguely horizontal to lie down and sleep for the next few hours.

“Ho, Duncan! My scouts reported your approach; you were away longer than we expected!”

The man who stops them just as they enter camp is tall, fair haired and in richly decorated golden armour. He’s taller than even Duncan, grinning, and there’s a definite bounce in his step as he comes over to greet the two of them.

“Your majesty,” Duncan says. He bows. “I apologize for my delay.”

Ren has enough sense and memory to realize that this must be Cailan, Ferelden’s king. She manages to drop into a curtsy without falling on her face and murmurs a quiet greeting. Her legs feel like they’re made of jelly; she’s been riding for too long.

“No need for apologies, Duncan,” he claps Duncan on the shoulder and smiles. “It’s good that you have returned; we can hardly launch our great battle against the darkspawn without our Warden Commander.”

Cailan is dressed richly in the attire of a king-at-arms, but Ren doesn’t think that he fits the image too well with his soft and open face. He’s full of excitement, gesturing animatedly as he talks and grinning at Duncan with stars in his eyes.

“There is still the chance that the Archdemon–”

“None of the scout’s reports have brought news of the Archdemon and it certainly hasn’t been seen amongst the hoard. I doubt that this is actually a Blight; there’s plenty of darkspawn, to be sure, but nothing to indicate that this is anything but a particularly large surface raid.”

Duncan nods, but his mouth is set in a thin line. Ren thinks it’s rather obvious that he’s annoyed by Cailan’s blaisé attitude towards the darkspawn threat, but he won’t say anything out of respect for the throne. Ren herself is only vaguely aware of what an Archdemon is, but she knows better than to take the threat of it lightly.

“If you are that concerned about this, Duncan, then you should speak with Loghain. He’s taking our plans for the coming battle very seriously,” Cailan says. His gaze shifts, then, from Duncan to Ren.

Ren straightens her spine and sets her shoulders back. She meets his eyes and doesn’t look away, even though her knees are shaking beneath her dress and she’d much rather hide behind Duncan as she has been.

“And who is this lovely young lady?” Cailan asks. His smile is too wide, eyes dark, as he looks her over from the top of her head to the hem of her dress and back again. “I hadn’t thought that you were interested in a wife, Duncan.”

“She’s not my wife, your majesty. This is her highness Kerensa Fraser, one of our new recruits for the Grey Wardens.”

“Fraser, you say? That’s not a family I’m familiar with. Where in Ferelden do you hail from?”

“I’m not from Ferelden, your majesty,” Ren replies. “I found myself here after I was… taken from my home. I’m uncertain of how I arrived here in Ferelden.”

“You were kidnapped?” Cailan, for his part, sounds absolutely mortified. “You have my most sincere apologies. I hope that until you can return, that you may call my country home. Perhaps when this business is over, you could settle at my court for a time? At least until arrangements can be made for your safe return.”

Ren thinks that it’s a good thing her hood and the fading light of day hide much of her face in shadow, for she’s all too aware of the tendrils of corruption spreading across her skin.

“I thank you for your offer of hospitality, your majesty,” Ren replies. “However, I must respectfully decline, as Duncan has already promised to see me safely home.”

“Of course,” Cailan says. “I’m certain that Duncan will do a fine job. Still, I hope that you will be able to look back on your time here fondly. Or, well, as fondly as possible.”

His eyes are still lingering on Ren, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Even though she’s completely dressed, Ren feels quite naked under his stare and has to resist the urge to wrap her arms around herself for protection. Her hands are trembling at her side, clenched tightly into fists and she’s surprised that her hands haven’t started bleeding from how hard her nails are pressing into her palms.

“Your majesty, it has been a long day’s travel for us both. Perhaps we can speak more tomorrow? Once she and I have had time to rest.”

Ren has never been more grateful to Duncan. She could kiss him. She won’t, but she feels like she could.

“Of course,” Cailan demures. His smile isn’t quite right as he steps aside, hand lingering just above the small of Ren’s back as he turns to escort them into camp. Instead he, much to Ren’s internal alarm, offers her his arm. “Then please, allow me to escort you, princess.”

“Thank you,” Ren says, quietly. She takes Cailan’s arm and averts her eyes as demurely as she can. She realizes quickly that’s a mistake, because she hears Cailan chuckle and her cheeks warm. This isn’t something that she was prepared for.

Luckily, Duncan falls into step beside her and Ren takes some small comfort in the closeness of his presence. She certainly feels safer with him there.

“You may have my tent for the night,” Duncan says. “I will retire with one of the other Wardens. There is certainly space aplenty, given that we are so few in number.”

Ren nods and murmurs her gratitude quietly. The bright gold of Cailan’s gauntlet feels cool against her hand and she tries to focus on that. Alright, she’s in over her head. Maybe letting Duncan run with the idea that she is a lost princess was a bad idea after all; Ren’s not certain that she’s prepared for this level of… attention that Cailan’s giving her. She isn’t so sure that her little masquerade can hold up under intense scrutiny.

Luckily, it isn’t far from the bridge to the Grey Warden section of the army’s encampment. Their tents are all emblazoned with the image of what Ren now knows is a griffon and they’re arranged in a small circle around a large, blazing fire. Duncan directs her to the largest of the collection of tents.

Carefully, Ren pulls away from Cailan and offers him her best curtsy. This time, though, she meets his eyes almost defiantly. She will not be cowed by this man. She will _not_ be afraid and she will _not_ be used.

“Thank you again, your majesty, for your hospitality and generous welcome,” Ren says. It’s a fight to keep the tremble out of her voice.

Cailan’s smiling again, “You are quite welcome, your highness.”

He takes her hand in his much larger one, making quite the show of bowing over it and brushing his lips against her knuckles. Ren resists the urge to jerk her hand back, keeping her face a mask of cool indifference.

“I hope that I will see you again tomorrow before the battle.”

Ren has a pretty good idea of what Cailan would _like_ to happen and she’d rather suffer through another week of trudging through the wilderness with the damn awful nightmares. She keeps that to herself, though, and offers Cailan a cool smile before bidding him and Duncan a good night and retreating to Duncan’s tent.

The interior of the tent is fairly spacious, Ren thinks. Or, it is as far as tents go and she’s a terrible judge because this is the first one that she’s actually been in. But it has a cot along one side, a curtain to change behind, and thank whatever higher power is out there, because there’s a small table with a cloth and wash basin on it.

It’s not the same as an actual bath, but Ren would rather wash herself with a cloth then go out into the camp and try and find somewhere else to bathe. Especially not with the way that Cailan watches her.

Ren strips down to her shift, carefully folding her dress and laying it on an empty stool. She splashes cold water on her face and dabs at her skin, feeling marginally better for it. Once she’s as clean as she can manage with the lacklustre bathing facilities on offer, Ren makes a beeline for the cot.

It feels like heaven after the long days and nights of tossing on the ground. Ren’s asleep as soon as she pulls the blankets over her.

* * *

Ren emerges from Duncan’s tent the next morning feeling a little more refreshed and less saddlesore than she did the night before. Duncan is at the fire in the centre of the little circle of Grey Warden tents, speaking in hushed tones to who she can only assume is another Warden or messenger. It’s late in the morning, for the sun has clearly been up for some time, but the chill still hangs in the air.

She waits until Duncan finishes his conversation, waiting a respectful distance so as not to eavesdrop, before approaching him.

“Ah, good, you’re awake. Did you sleep well?”

Ren shrugs, “As well as could be expected.”

Duncan nods, “We will be holding the Joining later today and you should prepare yourself. There’s a young Grey Warden in the camp, by the name of Alistair. He will be supervising your Joining; I recommend that you speak with him and let him know to gather the other recruits.”

“Alright then, I’ll find him then. Do you–”

Ren is cut off when another Grey Warden comes up to Duncan, asking him something or other about some detail of the battle. Duncan makes a little waving gesture at her and Ren knows enough to figure that means that she’s dismissed. She has no idea who this Alistair is, where to find him, or even what he looks like. This… could be a problem.

Leaving behind the small circle of tents belonging to the Wardens, Ren finds that the camp is bustling with activity. It’s full of people, practically pulsing with life and an energy that’s all its own. The majority of the people she sees milling about are in armour and human, though she spots a couple of elves scattered about.

 _Elves_. Their pointed ears remind Ren of the ruins she awoke in. The pieces click together. The ruins she woke in were elvish.

It doesn’t make much difference now, though, because they’re long behind her and she won’t be returning there ever. Just thinking of the place brings back that chill and Ren shivers. No, she won’t be going back there ever again, not even for all the answers that she doesn’t have.

She winds her way through the camp, trying to find someone who will stop for long enough for her to _ask_ about this Warden she’s supposed to be looking for. No one, though, will stop long enough to let her ask a question. There is a lot of bowing, a lot of “your highness,” and a whole host of other small pleasantries that Ren doesn’t care about.

Just when she’s about to give up on finding anyone, a tall man with dark hair and a heavily lined face steps in front of her. He’s heavily armoured and, like Duncan, his face seems set in a permanently grim expression, though on him it’s certainly much more disdainful.

“You must be the Grey Warden princess that I have heard so much about,” he says. His eyes drag up her body slowly, from the muddied hem of her dress to her hood pulled carefully up over her hair. The corner of his mouth, if possible, twitches down further.

“I… I suppose that I am,” Ren blinks, slowly. Then she remembers her manners and curtsies to him politely, “My name is Kerensa Fraser. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ser.”

He crosses his arms and, if possible, looks even _more_ disdainful then he did before, “I am Loghain.”

“Ser Loghain,” Ren says. “As I said, it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’m actually supposed to be looking for Warden Alistair. If you could point me in his direction, I would appreciate it greatly.”

“You’ll likely find him harassing the mages again,” Loghain replies. He’s already turning away from her, dismissal written in every gesture. “Now, if you excuse me _your highness_ , some of us have actual duties that must be seen to before this coming battle.”

With that, Loghain turns on his heel and leaves. Ren watches him go, feeling much colder than she did when she first woke up. She’s not sure which is worse: Loghain’s clear and apparent disdain for her; or Cailan’s overtly unwanted interest in her. Maybe playing along with Duncan’s assumption that she’s kidnapped royalty wasn’t such a good idea. It’s too late for her to deny it, though, so that’s what Ren will have to live with.

Ren sighs. None of that’s important right now. She’s _still_ no closer to finding this Alistair that she’s supposed to be looking for. She also has no idea what he looks like, which makes it harder. Even with Loghain’s little ‘clue’, she doesn’t actually know where the mages are to begin looking for him.

Fuck. This.

Wandering through an army camp is not exactly how Ren wants to spend her morning. Each person she stops to try and ask for directions either brushes her off because they have somewhere to be or tells her to ask someone else. There’s a battle to be fought, Ren understands that, but at the very least someone should be able to pause for a few seconds to point her in the right direction!

Finally, she gets fed up with the cold shoulder.

She spots a young, dark-haired man who is coming out of a tent and strides up to him, trying to be as confident as she possibly can be. Ren stops a little shy of him, putting on her best bright smile and trying to appear as though she’s used to power and being obeyed; she’s pretty sure she’s failing epically at it.

“Hello,” Ren says. “Can you help me? I seem to be a bit… lost.”

He has to have the brightest blue eyes Ren has ever seen, which compliment his dark hair perfectly. He looks young, too, far too much so to be here and, from the looks of the sword he’s casually slung over his shoulder, fighting in this battle to come. Still, that’s not her place and she says nothing more on the subject.

“Y-your highness,” he says, cheeks flushing, and falls into a bow. “I’m at your service. How can I help you?”

“For one, you don’t need to do that,” Ren says. Her own face feels hot and his bow has drawn quite a lot of stares and whispers. “And, um, as for helping me, I’m trying to find a Grey Warden named Alistair, but no one has been able to tell me where I might find him.”

He looks uncomfortable, which isn’t surprising given how Ren has just sprung this on him, but he rallies surprisingly quickly, “I’m not familiar with any of the Wardens; they usually don’t come this far into the camp. I doubt that you’ll find who you’re looking for here.”

Ren sighs and crosses her arms, trying not to look too dejected. She bites her lip, her eyes burning but she will _not_ cry; that means weakness and it’s not like she’s actually sad, she’s just very _frustrated_. Taking a deep, shaking breath, Ren tries to steady herself. Loghain said something about mages, though where the mages are, she has no idea.

“I can escort you back to the Warden encampment,” the young man offers. He looks so earnest, too, wide-eyed and sweet, eyes bright blue like the sky at midday.

“Thank you,” Ren says, smiling. “I’m afraid I don’t think I could find my way back on my own.”

The two of them fall into step easily, making their way back through the camp. Ren hadn’t realized just how large the camp was, but it spills out of the ruins of the fortress itself in a sea of tents and people. It would be nice to have the chance to look around and actually become familiar with the camp, but this isn’t the time for aimless wandering.

“Here,” the young man says, gently touching Ren’s elbow as they pass under a massive crumbling arch. “The Grey Warden encampment is just beyond the officers’ tents. Can you find it from here?”

Ren recognizes the bright colours of the royal tents and nods. She turns to her guide with a smile, “Thank you so much…?”

“Carver,” he replies. “Carver Hawke.”

“Ser Carver,” she says. “Thank you for bringing me back. I don’t want to keep you from your duties much longer, but could you maybe point me to where I would find the mages? The Warden I’m supposed to be looking for might be there.”

Carver blinks and then points at another collection of tents across the ruins from where they entered, “I don’t know why he’d be there, but if you’re looking for the mages compound then it’s just over there – past where the army Chantry is.”

“Thanks again,” Ren says. “I really do appreciate your help, Ser Carver. If there’s anything I can do to help you, please let me know and I’ll help you however I’m able. Just ask.”

“I,” Carver stares at her, his cheeks turning an incredibly bright shade of red. He looks away from her for a moment, before he looks back and gives her a crooked smile, “I will, your highness. I mean, thank you – I’m happy that I could help you.”

“Good luck, Ser Carver. I hope I’ll see you again when this is over.”

She parts ways with Carver there, who turns to return to the general area of the camp while Ren makes her way towards where he indicated that the mage encampment is. Hopefully, that’s where she’ll find this Warden Alistair and find out about whatever this Joining ritual entails.

There’s a very small part of Ren that wants to stop and try to sneak a peek at the mages, just to see what they’re like. But the imposing men in plate armour emblazoned with what is definitely meant to be a blazing sword give her a look like she’s some nasty, half-drowned creature that just dragged itself out of a swamp and she keeps walking. She saw the way that their eyes glowed from behind the shadows of their helmets, which only adds to their sinister look.

Past the group of colourful tents decorated with a symbol that Ren doesn’t know the meaning of, she comes to a large stone ramp that leads up into what may have been some grand meeting hall – or maybe a dining hall – many centuries before. Emerging into it, she notices to her left a large wooden table at one end, around which a great number of people bustle to and fro. At the other end of the hall, upon another level altogether, there’s a solitary pair of men.

Ren can’t get a good look at one, for her view is of his back, but she recognizes the Grey Wardens’ griffon upon his shield. This, Ren hopes, must be Alistair.

Alistair is dressed in what Ren thinks is fairly light armour, shield casually slung across his shoulder with his sword sheathed at his left hip. She has a terrible view of him from behind, but from what she can make out, he’s perhaps a half-head taller than she is and fair-haired.

While Alistair’s posture is casual, the man he’s talking to stands ramrod straight – a bit like he has the world’s largest stick lodged up his ass – and wearing dark robes. Though he has no staff at hand, Ren’s quite certain that he’s a mage.

“Your _glibness_ does you no credit,” the mage spits. The air about him ripples for a moment, turning varying shades of sparkling indigo, which quickly fades. If looks alone could kill, Ren’s certain that Alistair would be little more than a pile of ash on the ground. Or a toad.

The mage storms past Alistair and then nearly knocks Ren to the ground. He shoulders past her roughly, face looking like a bee just stung him, and grumbling about just where the Grey Wardens can ‘fucking shove their _bloody taint_ ’.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Ren asks.

“Not at all,” he replies. His grin is a little crooked, tugging up one side of his mouth more than the other. “It’s a marvelous thing, the Blight – for how it brings us together. Anyway, I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve met you before.”

Ren’s still stuck on the joke. It takes her a minute to remember herself and she manages a fumbling cursty, “Right. I’m Kerensa, but Ren works fine. I’m also really hoping that you’re Warden Alistair.”

“Oh! You’re Duncan’s new recruit, then. Yes, I’m Alistair; sorry, I should have recognized you sooner. You’ve been the talk of the camp, you know.”

Right at that moment, Ren would be perfectly fine if the ground opened up and swallowed her whole. Instead, she settles for burying her face in her hand, “I’d rather not know. But I guess it can’t be avoided.”

“Not every day that a beautiful foreign princess arrives to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens. From what I’ve heard, Cailan is particularly taken with you. I’m not sure that Loghain approves.”

Her cheeks are still flaming hot against her hands, into which she mutters, “Don’t remind me about that; I’m trying to forget.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how it works.”

“We’re not having this conversation.”

“I think it’s a bit late for that,” Alistair says and he’s laughing now. Ren drags her hands down her face enough that she can peek at him from between her fingers.

“This is not funny,” she says, trying to sound as stern as she possibly can. “He is _married_ and I’m definitely _not interested_.”

“You know, it’s funny, but I don’t actually think that’s stopped him before. The first part, I mean, with the whole ‘he’s married’ bit. The ‘not interested’ part would probably only give him pause.”

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Likely not, no.”

“I’m not interested in a – a,” Ren fumbles for the word she’s looking for, feeling like it’s on the tip of her tongue; then realization hits her like a bolt of lightning, “Bloody skirt chaser.”

Alistair’s face is still alight with mirth and his grin, if anything, has just gotten _bigger_ , “Not that this isn’t an enlightening conversation, but I’m assuming that you’re not here to gossip with me about his majesty.”

Ren drops her hands from her face, relief soaking through her at the change of subject, “No, Duncan said I was supposed to find you. He said something about my Joining?”

“Right,” Alistair says. He straightens his shoulders, “Since I’m the newest Grey Warden, I’ll be overseeing your Joining. There’s two other recruits here presently that will be undertaking it alongside you, we should go find them and let them know it’s time.”

He offers Ren his arm, which she takes only a little hesitantly. When she takes it, he smiles at her reassuringly, “So… you’re not from Ferelden?”

“No.”

“I’ve never left Ferelden,” Alistair tells her conversationally. “You must have seen some interesting sights.”

“Not really. I’ve never actually… been outside before?”

It’s only after it comes out of her mouth that Ren realizes that there’s probably a better way she could have phrased that. As it is, she sounds like a hopelessly sheltered idiot – which is exactly what she’s pretending to be and completely is but _still_.

Alistair, though, laughs, “Really?”

“That came out wrong,” Ren says, frowning. “ _Obviously_ , I’ve been outside before. I’ve just never left my home before – I’ve never seen the world. This is all very new to me.”

“And you decided that the best way to see the world was to join the Grey Wardens?”

“No, that was…” She bites her lip, weighs the possibilities and decides to hell with it all because secrets like this always have a habit of coming out at the worst time. Best to be upfront and honest, “Did Duncan tell you about what happened when we left Denerim?”

“An attack from a small raiding party of darkspawn,” Alistair replies, frowning. “I’m not one of the senior Wardens, so…”

No one’s been paying them much attention, but Ren glances around quickly nonetheless. The camp is so busy that there’s no reason to pay attention to either of them, and people mill past them without a second glance. Carefully, she tugs her hood back and sweeps her hair behind her ear, revealing the long black tendrils that have spread up the side of her neck.

She knows Alistair sees it because she can feel him tense under where her hand is tucked into his elbow.

“It happened after we left Denerim,” Ren says quietly, staring at the muddied hem of her dress. “I’m tainted now. Duncan gave me the choice to join the Grey Wardens… and so I am.”

She looks back up at him now and smiles, though she’s aware it’s a thin one, “No matter what happens, I’m seeing this out to the end. I have to.”

“And I’ll make sure you do,” Alistair says. He places his hand over her own, still tucked in his elbow, and squeezes it, “You have my word, your highness. I’ll see you through.”

Her heart does a funny little pitter-patter in her chest, stomach fluttering, “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.” Alistair glances away after a few moments, sun-browned cheeks turning a little pink, “Now, we should find the other recruits. We’ve got a lot to do before tonight.”

“Right.”

Even with Alistair beside her, Ren feels more than little out of place in her mud-spattered dress. There are other women in the camp, she’s noticed, but the majority of those she’s seen have been dressed for war just as the men they pass. Some wear the familiar flame-embossed robes of the Chantry, though beyond that Ren has little idea of what role they serve.

The pair of them stop at the quartermaster’s little alcove. Ren can smell something sulphurous, a foul stench that makes her nose wrinkle. It’s almost worse than the stench of unwashed bodies.

“… your pretty little head could be riding on a pike in just a few hours,” a dark-haired man is saying to a young woman. “Why not enjoy the time we’ve got?”

Instead of replying, the woman just stares at him before she turns on her heel and walks away.

“Fine you–”

“Daveth,” Alistair says, sounding more than just a little bit exasperated.

“What do – oh, Warden Alistair.” His eyes slide from Alistair to Ren, and he grins, “And who might this vision of beauty be?”

“ _She_ would be her highness, _Princess_ Kerensa Fraser,” Alistair replies. “Duncan’s new recruit.”

Daveth’s not much taller than Ren, his dark hair close-cropped and looking incredibly scruffy. He looks particularly like he could use a good wash and a shave as well. Much like every other man she’s seen in the camp, he wears armour and is armed – though his armour certainly looks as though it has seen better days.

Ren inclines her head to him, “Pleasure to meet you.”

His grin in return is positively lascivious, “I assure you, your highness, the pleasure’s all mine.”

Alistair angles Ren a little behind himself, his posture protective and voice stern, “Since our last recruit has arrived, the Joining can begin. You should go find Duncan, Daveth.”

Daveth shrugs, “Alright, alright, I know when I’m not wanted. But if her highness is looking for some company, I’m available.”

Ren blinks, stares after Daveth as he goes and then turns back to Alistair, “I’m pretty sure that he was flirting with me.”

There must be something in the way that she says it, because Alistair makes a choking noise – like there’s laughter stuck in his throat. And _then_ he’s laughing, right properly, “You’re only ‘pretty sure’ that he was?”

“... yes?”

If anything, her answer just makes Alistair laugh _harder_.

“What? What did I say?”

“Nothing!” Alistair replies, grinning.

Ren’s beginning to believe that she’ll never understand men. She didn’t think that what she said was that funny… was it? Reviewing the conversation in her head takes her nowhere, because she’s pretty sure that Daveth was flirting with her – or at least, trying to get her naked, which is basically the same thing.

She frowns, “Aren’t we supposed to be finding the other Warden-Recruits?”

That sobers Alistair up a little, “Yes, but there’s something that you’ll need first. Wait here.”

The quartermaster is near the kennel and it’s the sound of a dog whining that attracts Ren’s attention. It’s only a few steps over and she peers over the fenced wall to look inside.

There’s at least six dogs on one side, kept apart from the last one. It’s the separate one which is making the whining that Ren heard. Lying on the ground and curled about itself, it cocks its head very slowly in her direction. Its eyes are dark and its colouring a beautiful russet shade.

“Ah, your highness, best be careful,” a man says. “That one’s master died in one of the raids. ‘Fraid he might have been poisoned by darkspawn blood as well.”

Ren turns to look at the man, he’s tall, stocky, with fair coloured hair and a deeply set frown on his face.

“There’s nothing that can be done for him?” Ren looks over at the dog, a beautiful creature that stares right back at her. “Nothing at all?”

“Ah, well, I couldn’t ask you to – but you’re one of them Warden-Recruits, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“Then…” he hesitates. “If you’ll be going into the Korcari Wilds, there’s a certain flower that grows in there. It’s a white one, with a deep red centre. If you find any, bring them back to me. I can make up a tonic that’ll take care of that poisoning.”

Even though she doesn’t really know what the Korcari Wilds are or even if she’ll ever be venturing into them, Ren nods her head, “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Thank you, your highness,” the man says, smiling. “Really do appreciate it.”

After he walks off, Ren watches the dog for a few more moments. It’s Alistair who interrupts her meandering thoughts, brushing his hand against her shoulder.

“Ren?”

She turns to him, “Did you get what you needed?”

“Here, for you.” He holds out a [sheathed dagger](http://40.media.tumblr.com/f78c912236ffc9bb03a3ffa64949b9a6/tumblr_nuymscmCra1rvtvido4_250.jpg) to her.

Ren takes it from him, hand curling around the hilt. The sheath is a warm, rich shade of red and, when she unsheathes it just a little, the blade shines. Looking at it, her own eyes stare back at her – large and lost. She looks up at Alistair, brow furrowed.

“This is… for me?”

Alistair nods, “I’ll show you how to use it later. But you’ll be much safer if you’re armed.”

Ren looks back down at the dagger, sliding it back into its sheath. There are loops along it, clearly it’s meant to be worn on a belt, which is something that she lacks. But still, it was thoughtful of Alistair to get it for her.

“Thank you. I’ll have to find some way to repay you.”

Gently, Alistair places his hands over hers, closing her grip on the dagger with his hands, “Consider it a gift. Ren, you don’t need to repay me for anything.”

Her heart feels like it’s lodged in her throat and her chest feels tight. Meeting Alistair’s eyes, she nods her head, “Alright.”

Ren thinks that she’d like to have time to examine what she’s currently feeling, but the moment of comfortable silence doesn’t last. When Alistair pulls away, a soft smile still lingering on his lips, she has to remind herself that they’re on the cusp of a battle. There will be time later for her to think on her emotions.

She holds the sheathed dagger to her chest, taking Alistair’s arm once again, and follows alongside him while they continue through the camp. Her heart slowly calms from its earlier fluttering rhythm, settling back into its place deep in her chest.

Walking through the camp with Alistair, she realizes why it was so easy for her to get lost. The tents all look similar, with very little difference. Ren can’t see any sense in how the camp is organized, but she feels safer with Alistair at her side and guiding her through it. It’s a… pleasant feeling, she decides.

They find the last Warden-Recruit, Jory, listening to a sermon being given by one of the members of the Chantry.

Jory, unlike Daveth, is older, likely closer to Duncan’s age than either Ren or Alistair’s. He’s a little shorter than Ren, portly, and his hairline of reddish-brown hair is quickly receding. Combined with that, he looks rather worried.

“I hadn’t thought that women joined the Grey Wardens,” Jory says, after Alistair tells him that it’s time for the Joining.

“Not many do, but they’re just as welcome among our ranks,” Alistair replies.

“Forgive me, your highness. I heard of your arrival, but we haven’t been introduced; my name is Jory.”

“A pleasure, Ser Jory. I’m Kerensa Fraser.” Although she wants to tell him that it’s fine and that he can call her Ren, she gets the distinct impression that he wouldn’t listen to her.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what this Joining entails?” Jory asks, casting a wary eye at Alistair. “I mean, it’s all rather secretive, isn’t it? Daveth was saying that we’ll have to go into the Wilds.”

“I don’t know anything about the Joining, no,” Ren replies. “Duncan didn’t say anything of it on our journey from Denerim, except that it would happen when we arrived.”

“You two don’t have anything to worry about,” Alistair’s smile has turned a shade bit thinner. “As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you. You’ll be fine.”

“That’s all well and good, but I don’t like the secrecy of it all. Duncan told me nothing of it. Hopefully, this business will be finished quickly and the darkspawn repelled.” Jory’s rambling, voice droning on and on and on. He must like to hear himself talk, “I heard of your kidnapping, your highness, and it saddens me greatly. Is that why you are joining the Wardens?”

“I have my reasons,” Ren hedges. Telling Alistair about how she’s tainted is one thing, but telling Jory is very different and she isn’t too keen on advertising that fact.

She proceeds to tune out the vast majority of Jory’s definitely nervous rambling, only contributing here and there with some response in the affirmative. He has a wife, she finds out, who is expecting a child and who waits for him in Highever. While Jory chatters away beside them, Ren looks around the camp, taking in the mass of people that pass them by.

There’s generally uniformity to the armour that she sees the various people wearing. Occasionally, she spots an elf within the crowd. Ren wonders, briefly, if any of them would know anything of the ruin that she awoke in, but she doesn’t leave Alistair’s side to pursue that thought. Later, she tells herself, there will be time for that later.

Returning to the Grey Warden’s compound of tents, Duncan and Daveth are both waiting for them. Despite that it’s early afternoon, there’s a large fire roaring behind them. Duncan looks them over as they approach, waiting until they’re only a foot or two away before he speaks.

“Now that you have all assembled, we can begin preparations for the Joining.” Duncan’s eyes linger on each of his recruits in turn, “You’ve all been chosen or made the choice to join our ranks. However, before the Joining can be performed, there is something that you must do.”

“A catch, there’s _always_ a catch,” Daveth mutters.

Duncan doesn’t acknowledge him and continues, “The four of you are to go into the Korcari Wilds and gather three vials of darkspawn blood – one for each of you. Alistair will, of course, be accompanying you, but you must not linger long.”

It’s to Ren that Duncan gives the vials. Each is about the length of her hand and two fingers wide, the glass is heavy and cool in her hands. Sturdy, Ren thinks. The corks that stopper the vials look old and worn and there’s a chip at the mouth of one. Clearly, they’ve seen better days.

“The vials are not your only goal,” Duncan adds. “Many years ago, there was a Warden outpost in the Wilds. Although much of what once was there was either taken then or in the years since, there should be a collection of treaties. I ask that you bring to me, before dusk, three vials of darkspawn blood and those treaties. Do that, and the Joining ceremony can begin in full.”

“How will we find these ruins?” Ren asks, tucking the vials carefully into the pocket of her dress.

“Alistair will know what to look for. The ruins are not far from here, but given how few Wardens there are we have not had the manpower nor time to retrieve these treaties.”

“The Wilds? Isn’t that – isn’t that dangerous?”

Ren blinks, looks between Jory and Duncan and back again. There has to be something about the Wilds that she just doesn’t know, because everyone seems awfully wary of the place. Or maybe that’s simply just Jory.

Daveth snorts, nudges Jory in the side with his elbow, “What? Are you scared, Ser Knight?”

“Of course not!” Jory sputters. His pudgy face turning red from the neckline of his armour, progressing slowly up his face. “But an entire scout’s patrol disappeared in there yesterday! Would it really be safe for us to take Her Highness in there?”

“I’m a Warden-Recruit just like you are, Ser Jory. There’s no need with paying me any special attention,” Ren replies. Then she turns back to Duncan, “That’s all that we need to do? Collect the vials of blood and those Warden treaties?”

“Yes, that’s all. Once you’ve completed both tasks, return to camp with all haste. The army marches tonight, so we will need to hold the Joining as soon as is possible.”

“Then let’s go.”

Before they leave the camp, Alistair retrieves a spare belt from somewhere. He has to punch extra holes in it so that it will fit around Ren’s waist, and helps her to situate her new dagger. It rests at her side, within very easy reach.

Jory casts her dagger a wary eye, “Do you know how to use that, Princess Kerensa?”

She gives him her best smile, “You don’t need to worry about me. I can look after myself.”

That’s the time that Alistair chooses to intervene at, “She’s right, though. You don’t need to worry about her. She isn’t your responsibility.”

Before they leave the camp by way of the farthest exit, they decide on a battle formation. Jory and Alistair both have swords and shields, whereas Daveth pairs a short one-handed sword with a dagger. If there is fighting, Ren is to stay in the rear and, if needed, find a safe place to hide until combat is over. Anyone tries anything funny, she stabs them.

She does, in fact, know how to stab someone.

There are two things that Ren learns very quickly about the Korcari Wilds. First, they’re a fucking _swamp_. Two, they smell. It’s not even a bad smell; she likes it much more than she did the stench of the army camp or even of Denerim. It smells like earth, like fresh grass clippings, and something about it stirs something within her, though she doesn’t know what it is.

It reminds her of something, but she cannot grasp what that is. Much like before, it’s as though she’s grasping at sand falling through her fingers. She feels like it _should_ be there, but it isn’t and it’s frustrating to know that she’s trying to fit things into something that’s gone. There are small stirs of _I know this_ within her, but when she presses, there is nothing more.

Ren’s smart enough not to let herself get too caught up in her worrying about what she does and doesn’t remember. When they find the remnants of the scout patrol that Jory had spoken of earlier, she makes a beeline for the edge of one of the dirty pools of water, folding herself down to hide amongst the tall reeds and grass, keeping a large fallen tree between her and the fight.

While she’s folded in her little hiding place, the sounds of combat close at hand, she spots the flower.

It’s a large flower, as big as her hand, with a deep almost blood red centre. Ren reaches out and, carefully, snaps the stem and holds it close. It smells… sweet, almost cloyingly so. But she inhales the scent deeply, blocking out the noises of fighting by focusing on it.

She stays there, crouched and curled up, until she hears Alistair call out, “It’s safe now!”

Ren tucks the flower into the pocket of her dress on the other side of the one that’s carrying the vials for the darkspawn blood. When she stands, she brushes off her dress – for all the good it does, it’s now likely beyond salvation – and slowly makes her way back over to the rest of the party.

Alistair meets her halfway, helping her over some of the uneven terrain. Even through the leather covering his hands, they’re warm. Despite the blood spatter on his armour and the stench that she now can successfully identify as darkspawn, he smiles at her and she feels lighter.

“I think that’s one part of our quest that we can count as done,” Alistair says lightly. “You still have the vials?”

“Huh? Oh, yes. Yes, I do.” Ren fumbles for a minute, blinking and looking away from Alistair to pull them from the pocket of her dress. She holds up the three heavy vials, which are mercifully still intact. “Right here.”

Jory and Daveth are equally as blood-spattered as Alistair is, but Ren ignores that and the smell which is _still_ awful enough to nearly make her gag to hand them each one of the vials. They seem to have taken a small raiding party of darkspawn by surprise. One has been disemboweled, Ren notes distantly, and another has been decapitated.

She doesn’t think about it, instead quickly crouching at the side of the nearest corpse to gather the required blood. It’s a thick, black ichor that sticks to her fingers as she pulls away. She wipes her fingers on her dress, leaving horrible oily smears behind. Her dress is completely beyond salvation at this point, Ren notes.

 _Well, better that than dead_.

She tucks away the vial of blood into her pocket, then looks to Alistair, “So, where’s this Warden outpost we’re meant to be looking for?”

Alistair cleans his blade of blood before he sheathes it, then he strides over to Ren and offers her a hand to help her back to her feet. He points to a crumbling dome some ways off, its columns and walls eroding away into the waters of the swamp.

“Just a little ways past that ruin there.”

He’s so close that Ren can see there’s a thin scratch on his cheek, slowly weeping blood. Without thought, she reaches up and brushes the blood away with her thumb. Her skin tingles.

Alistair stares at her, “Um.”

Ren’s face feels like she stuck it into a pot of boiling water. She glances down, dropping her hand, “I – um.”

“Uh, so, I think we’d better get moving,” Alistair awkwardly clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t want to be out here too long.”

“Yes, right. Let’s keep moving.” Her face is still burning. Her hand’s also still tingling, which doesn’t go away even when she clenches her fist to stop it. She feels… warm, like there’s something fluttering against her ribcage. Ren’s pretty sure that it’s her heart.

It’s not… awkward, Ren thinks, after. But things get very quiet after that. There’s darkspawn in the swamp, but Alistair assures them that they won’t be ambushed.

“It’s a Grey Warden thing,” he hedges when pressed. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

Daveth has _mostly_ stopped ribbing Jory over the latter’s cowardice, but he still takes the time to occasionally throw a risqué comment back at Ren, who brings up the rear of their little troup. Ren mostly ignores the comments – she’s not interested and Daveth’s just looking to get a rise out of her. Or get lucky. Either outcome isn’t one she’ll give him.

On the other hand, Alistair tells him off.

“It’s behaviour unbecoming of a Warden-Recruit.”

Daveth just shrugs it off, but he grins, “We all can’t be knights in shining buckets, I guess.”

“I never–”

Ren blinks, “Buckets…?”

It’s Alistair’s turn to flush now, “I – nevermind, I’ll tell you about it later. Once we’re back in camp.”

“Alright…”

It takes them the better part of two hours to traverse the muddy, uneven terrain of the Wilds to reach the ruins of the old Warden outpost. They had to take several detours, taking long ways around particularly deep and murky ponds – the direct route was absolutely out of the question.

Ren’s perfectly fine with striding straight through the muddy, ankle-deep water that separates them from the ruins. She’s just about to pull up the hem of her dress to follow after Jory when Alistair stops her with a gentle hand to her elbow. She looks back to him, question on the tip of her tongue.

There’s pink high in Alistair’s cheeks, but he meets her eyes easily. He clears his throat, “May I?”

A tiny part of Ren is going _oh shit_ , but the rest of her is stuck just like how her voice has lodged itself in her throat. Her face is warm again – probably just as pink as Alistair’s – and she nods her head wordlessly.

The first thought that shoots through her head when Alistair sweeps her legs out from under her is something along the lines of _dear fucking god please don’t fucking dropping me_. The second one is _quick grab onto him before he does_ , followed swiftly by _you fucking moron he is not going to drop you_.

Alistair keeps one arm under knees, the other curled around her back. He does, though, smile at Ren’s wide eyes and the way that she automatically latches onto her shoulders. He leans in just a little closer, so his words are just for her, “I’ve got you, alright?”

Her face is still too hot, but Ren manages to return his smile and nods. Her heart takes a little longer to get with the program, slowing itself from its rapid spike.

There’s a small smudge of blood left on Alistair’s cheek. The scratch is gone.

Once they’re across the small stream, Alistair sets Ren carefully back on her feet. Before he lets her go entirely, she catches his forearm. He can’t feel the pressure through his armour, obviously, but she still squeezes it and softens her smile.

“Thank you.”

Daveth makes a noise like there’s something caught in his throat. It jerks Ren back and Alistair pulls away, Ren’s face is still warm but she’s smiling. She shoves a stray lock of hair back behind her ear and looks up at the ruin before them.

Once, it might have been an intimidating structure. Now, most of it has crumbled away. There’s foliage clinging to its every wall and the high dome that once was its roof has caved in. Ren can spot at least two trees growing up from the inside of it. She thinks that it looks awfully sad, a crumbling and long forgotten ruin left to rot.

“I’m not sensing any darkspawn,” Alistair says. “We should be good. Let’s get in quickly and find those treaties and get back to camp as soon as possible. We don’t want to be out past dusk.”

The four of them make their way up the short incline to the ruin. Ren thinks that there’s probably stairs buried under the ground beneath their feet, but time and nature have reclaimed them entirely. She follows a little behind Alistair, Daveth in the lead with Jory beside him.

Inside of the ruin is just as depressing. It’s as overgrown with plants as the outside of it is, although it reeks of something that smells a lot like wet dog. Well, wet dog mixed in with something that just recently died.

“How do we even know these treaties are still here? Doesn’t look like anything’s been here for a long time,” Daveth remarks, kicking at a lose rock.

“They’re protected by enchantments,” Alistair replies, pushing a low-hanging curtain of ivy aside so that Ren and he can pass through. “Only a Grey Warden can retrieve them.”

Ren scans the entirety of the space they’re in. It’s not very big, so she easily spots the cracked open and decaying chest at the base of one of the trees. She breaks away from Alistair’s side, moving towards it, and reaching out her hand.

There’s a hum of something, faint but there. It’s old, though, and weak. The tree’s roots have broken the chest, shattering it, and when she gently shoves aside it’s cracked and worn lid, there’s nothing inside but a root and handfuls of decaying leaves.

“They were here,” Ren murmurs quietly, as the others come up behind her. She speaks a little louder, “If they were here, someone must have taken them.”

“Taken? But–”

“Well, well, what have we here?”


End file.
